


I Need You

by Audio_Interference



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Depressing themes?, It will definitely get better I promise, M/M, Sum srs angst in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-04-05 01:38:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14033361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audio_Interference/pseuds/Audio_Interference
Summary: The Functionalist Council rules Cybertron with Sentinel Prime at the forefront. Music exists as a highly controlled luxury, a status symbol, and as those in control tighten their grip on society a new method of altering and shaming those that speak out arises.Orchestration. Shadow play and empurata, entwined and applied to the entire frame to turn political threats into beautiful, musical possessions the government can sell to the wealthy elites.Music tears both Shockwave and Soundwave apart, but it will bring them together too. They will struggle to hold onto each other even as they drive society into change with what little power they have left.(Based on this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTrc3mpjdI0 )





	1. Stolen

**Author's Note:**

> First Chapter! Sorry if it's rough, I just wanted to get it written. Soundwave's backstory is gonna be a lot longer in the next chapter but I hope I can keep the ball rolling. I have a lot planned for this story!

Senator Shockwave sat bent over the work console in the deepest portion of his personal research compound. No other place could keep him safe, and even now he knew his security was failing. Red tape ripped away by authoritarian government, flashing badges cowing his personnel into obedience. They didn’t want to be taken too. 

He gritted his denta as he dictated a message, entire body tense like a piano string- A little part of his mind laughed at the bitter irony of that simile- and he tried to push his already flying digits faster over the keys. The spelling errors hit his peripheral vision, little hail stones of errors that added to his stress, but finally he hit send and got to the sticky, rushing job of erasing all indications that a message had been sent. Error prone and rushed as it was, his spark grieved for the fact that that would be the last message he would ever send to Orion. 

Shockwave forced himself to sit calmly, swallowing the acidic panic trying to crawl out of the back of his intakes, and pulled up a very sensitive and intensive experiment he had been working on. Years and years in the making, it would have been a way to increase energon production under the surface of the planet itself. There was still so much left to do. The resigned sorrow settled on his proud shoulders as he let his brilliant, life changing project be used as a decoy to hide his correspondence. They would butcher his life’s work just as they butchered his mind and possibly his shape too. He had heard the rumors. 

Just then, the doors slid back and he had no need to feign his alarm as he stood up quickly to face his executioners. He let the fear he had been holding in flow into his spark, and the terror helped him play dumb, let him relish his feelings one last time, made his reactions convincing. It made it look like he didn’t know they were coming for him. 

He held down the numbing fear again to save his dignity as the officers escorted him from his own facilities, out to the padded transport. It was so blatant, it was sickening. The functionalist council wasn’t even hiding the fact that they were abducting political dissenters anymore. For frag’s sake, he was a senator! 

The entire drive he retained his dignity, stiff and reserved looking, but he wished he had caused enough of a scene to get them to drug him. Having to remain lucid as they shoved a cover over his helm and dragged him into a building only Primus knew where was torture. He wanted to scream so badly, but his pride got in the way. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. 

Hadn’t wanted to, but after they had strapped him down and removed the cover over his helm, they made him watch as they took his frame apart. Screaming was all he had the freedom to do, and eventually his screams and the shrieking of shearing tools on plating whorled together and he lost himself to the darkness as they opened him up. 

 

The process was called ‘Orchestration.’ 

 

His mind reminded him of the term dully when it pulled itself together enough to be cognizant of what he was seeing. His hand… There was a fragile, elegant bow where it had used to be. His chest felt hollow and his body weak and delicate. The world was lacking depth, he noted. His emotions, too, were lacking depth. Just like his frame, they had been gutted, made hollow. 

He laid back against the berth he was strapped to and awaited direction. In the emptiness of his mind and body, music was forming. Orchestration, he recalled, weakened the individual, reduced their frames to fragile, frivolous instruments, and directed the thoughts into advanced music making algorithms. It was effective. He felt like he was thinking slower, less able to focus, his cognizance sucked into composition. The one good hand he was left with twitched as he craned his neck to find the missing component. 

It was returned to him soon enough. Shockwave had been handed the violin that was constructed of the scrap of his body and then ushered along into a literal case. The soft padding kept him from moving, but the restraint only strengthened his need to play music.

He got his opportunity to. The case opened again. Shockwave had lost track of how much time he had spent in it's confines, but it hardly mattered as he was coaxed out of it and onto a stage. The lights were too bright to make out his surroundings. Details, he thought, that hardly mattered. He was free from the darkness and restraint of the case, and so his bow slid over the finely tuned strings of his violin, making real the music that begged his processor to let it free. 

Unknown to Shockwave, the wealthy elite watched from shaded booths and listened to the melancholic, hollow perfection of his melody. Shockwave moved like a beautiful doll on stage, his thin, decorated armor gleaming in the light, single eye mimicking the spotlight that cast dancing glares over the glossy bruised color of his plating. He was beautiful, but they had undoubtedly stolen from him the emotions that had made him so charismatic and the face that had made him so handsome. Now, just as with any Orchestral, he was like a piece of furniture. 

Even if they had left his emotions in tact, the elites would surely have still considered him furniture. Nothing more than a collectable status symbol, a supplier of live music with no other function than to be a beautiful reminder that those in charge could take what they wanted from the dissenters. Shockwave was not dead. Instead, they had suppressed him, chained him up, and forced him to please their optics and audials with beauty and precious music. Trained mechanimal, caged and taught to sing. He felt nothing, processor too shocked to really comprehend what had been done to him. He played because it was an instinct they had forced into him, and cowed as he was by his mutilation, he did what their foreign coding suggested he do and created sound out of his thoughts and emotions. His music sounded flat.

Negotiations were murmured as his song stretched on. Technically, it was perfect. Each note was perfectly timed, perfectly executed. But there was no spontaneity. It marched on like clinging sorrow after a funeral, resounding in the air in a way that drew the listener’s attention to the hollow space inside the violin. There wasn’t enough in it to even be sad. 

However, Shockwave had been a senator, and the noble beauty of his frame remained and was emphasized even by the orchestration that made him delicate and decorated. Regardless of the quality of his performance, there were quite a few among them that wanted to own the prestigious genius senator that had fought so cleverly against them. He was purchased, quickly and quietly, and then pressed back into his case for transport. 

\---

 

<...They have me. Don’t come after me. Stay safe, lay low, and forget about me. Take care of yourself, Orion Pax.>

 

\---


	2. Storm Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave pays Ratbat back for the torture he was put through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I actually scrapped like 1,000+ words because the initial backstory went more in depth but ultimately wasn't really important to the story. Enjoy this more succinct (and unedited) chapter 2!

Ratbat kept his smile as wide and sincere as possible, even as the guests he was entertaining smiled pleasant little smiles and pretended to be wringing as much intellectual enjoyment out of the music as possible.

“Beautiful. I do love this piece.” One of the merchants who, likely, had never heard this piece stated as he turned to his business partner. “I’d have loved to hear it played by nobility, but it’s quite lovely live regardless.” Ratbat laughed airily but inside his processor was throbbing. 

His useless Orchestral had been playing the same small portion of the same song over and over and over again for months. Every time he entertained. In the middle of the recharge cycle. Really, any time Ratbat was in ear shot. 

The only thing vaguely amusing about it was it weeded out which of his guests had enough wealth and prestige to be familiar with music. It wasn’t supposed to be the same few notes over and over again and again, though it’s not like most of them knew that. Even discounted, poor quality recordings were horribly expensive luxuries. Only the highest of the high class, the richest and most affluent, most important members of society were allowed to be musicians. Creating music as a function was, societally, completely useless in Ratbat's opinion, but the nobility got away with it due to the fact that they could claim to be so enlightened that there was a benefit to the production, one that could only be understood by the highest classes. They were rich enough to afford to be useless, and the music they played were all ancient, traditional, horribly long songs from Cybertron's past, ones that only the nobility had access to. To even hear the full version of one of these songs was an honor and an expense that really no one else but that caste could afford. 

Though they did sell snippets of them at a price which was affordable for important politicians and scientists. Ratbat had purchased one long ago, one that he did actually enjoy. It was rare for him to appreciate any form of art, so the clip had been a treasure close to his spark for years, something that almost made him believe there was more to existence than social capital and material goods. He regretted more than anything commanding Soundwave to play that music, as the Orchestral had chosen only a tiny fraction of his already small portion to play, over and over again, to the exclusion of all else. The tune pounded over the keys in time with the throbbing of his helm.

The merchants he had invited to his dinner party had moved on from the topic of music (thankfully) and Ratbat put on a politely attentive face as he half ignored them. If he had had a choice, he would have sold or even destroyed his Orchestral a long time ago, but to disrespect a gift from The Prime Himself would essentially destroy his career. And besides, Soundwave had essentially caused him to give up all the business and back alley deals he had arranged with the Decepticons. Not to mention, the benefit of having a hired telepath. 

It was a shame, really, that such a valuable hired mech had gotten involved with the ‘revolutionary’ barbarians spouting ideologies and ripping each other to shreds in the pits, never mind that Ratbat sent him there initially to make deals. It was sheer dumb luck that Ratbat had learned the extent of Soundwave's genuine involvement with the Decepticons, but rather than luck it had been Ratbat's cunning, skill, and political sway that convinced Sentinel Prime to sic a spy on Soundwave and raid the budding forces of the Decepticons with such power and brutality that they couldn't hope to resist. Some had been killed, some escaped, but most had been incapacitated, captured, and Orchestrated. Megatron himself had been denied even the function of an instrument and instead given a conductor's baton. They used him as a resource now in the Grand Music Hall of Iacon, conducting the Noble's Symphony and putting the once proud, powerful fighter on display like a trophy in the lobby of the music hall when he wasn't being used. Starscream and two other seekers had had their flight capabilities removed but were permitted to play together for any government events, clarinet leading the cello and bassoon. Ratbat wasn't sure where they were displayed. For himself, however, he was given the honor of keeping Soundwave. It was a possession that had elevated his societal position faster than all his years of underhanded, cut throat politics. 

A gift, but one that had turned out to be a horrible, constant nightmare to keep. Soundwave had a habit of playing just loudly enough to distract Ratbat from conversations, but as always no one else seemed to notice, the merchants still prattling on, oblivious to the ever present music on repeat. The damned orchestral was staring right at him too, and Ratbat had to keep himself from sneering as he imagined a smirk or a challenging scowl under the mask permanently welded to Soundwaves face. It was a struggle to keep smiling, and he could hear his denta grinding as he turned to the merchants. “Gentlemech, why don’t we move our business to a more private setting?” 

Luster, another merchant, smiled graciously. “Oh, if it’s all the same to you, I’m enjoying the live music very much. Really, your Orchestral is lovely. It’s elegance matches your own, Senator.” Rarely did schmoozing make him so angry, but he just willed his optic not to twitch and laughed again. The music got just a tad louder. 

It didn’t even stop once his guests were gone. Ratbat could still hear it from the entrance to his habitation flat as he bid the merchants a charming farewell and then gently shut the door. The silence made the obnoxious, never ending melody even more obvious, and he took a deep breath before striding up the stairs, wishing his footfalls could be loud enough to drown out the melody. Maybe he'd let himself lose control enough to strangle the damned instrument, he thought. It hardly dulled his anger to imagine the satisfaction.

Soundwave was still at the piano where he had left him. He didn’t even look up when Ratbat came in, and Ratbat crossed the room quickly so he could slam his closed fist down on the top of the piano to get the Orchestral to startle into stopping. Soundwave hardly paused, and Ratbat sucked in another deep breath, wondering not for the first time if Soundwave was really tormenting him or if they had shadowplayed his processor into little more than a glitching machine. Asking Soundwave wouldn't give him any answers, so he decided to threaten him instead.

“Soundwave, if you do not stop playing I will personally dismantle you out on the streets. Do you want that?” Soundwave, of course, didn’t respond except with the continuation of the incessant melody. His vocalizer removed, Soundwave couldn't have responded regardless, but the fact that he didn't even acknowledge the mech who owned him fanned the flames licking at Ratbat's spark. 

He snarled and rounded the piano, hauling Soundwave away from it by the waist. Soundwave was far lighter now that his armor had been stripped away and replaced with thin decorative plates, and though he was weak and entirely at his mercy, Ratbat had to be careful with him. Despite how much he wanted to, beating him wasn't an option. Orchestrals were made to be so delicate that only a moderately hard blow would crumple armor and potentially risk damaging internal systems. If he had to take an Orchestral of all things into Iacon for any type of repair, the nobility wouldn't hesitate to mark him as an uncouth barbarian just playing at the role of senator, and to show such disrespect to Sentinel Prime's incredibly valuable gift... No, the silent blue bastard was untouchable and they both knew it..

He half carried, half herded Soundwave back towards his case in the corner, teeth still clenched and helm throbbing in the blessed silence as he strapped him into the display box. He neglected to hook up the energon feed, figuring he could at least afford to punish Soundwave that much. Ratbat took his anger out on the door, letting it slam behind him as he exited the room.

He settled down on his recharge slab in the next room over a few minutes later, his headache finally subsiding. Soundwave had been keeping him up for months with increasing determination, but this was the first time he had refused to connect the energon feed to the port on the back of the instrument's helm as a result. He was too tired to even feel victorious over the extended silence, something he assumed was a largely due to the new punishment. Exhausted, he began to slide into blessed rest... Only to be shaken out of it a moment later by the sound of quiet piano keys, just loud enough to be heard through the wall. 

Ratbat’s optics snapped open. He stared up at the ceiling, eyes aching in the dark, waiting to see if the horrible music based torture device in the next room would stop. When it didn’t, he let frustration drag his exhausted frame from the berth and stormed into next room over. 

Naturally, the music stopped right as he passed into the doorway, Soundwave looking over at him from his clear display case with a blank face that managed to be completely infuriatingly unafraid and unapologetic. Ratbat marched up and banged loudly on the glass. “You think you can do this to me!? You’re nothing!” He was met with silence, just before the mechanisms behind the Orchestral’s clear chest plate began to move again. The song resumed. 

Ratbat could have screamed. “This ends. It ends tonight!” The music grew louder, Soundwave leaning forward in his display, challenging. Ratbat was venting deep, rage and exhaustion seeping into his processor, drowning him, muddling his thoughts, when one clear idea sprang forth out of the chaos. He was quiet. And then, for the first time that night, he laughed a loud, sincere laugh. “You, Soundwave, are going on loan. Oh, yes! Enjoy your puerile tormenting while you can, you insignificant little tool, they can beat and repair you all they like where I'm sending you!” The music had changed, sounding like a storm in the Orchestral’s chest as deep notes shook the glass of the display. Ratbat's optics were gleaming with a predatory triumph as he heard the song change, knowing he had finally found a way to strike down the mocking little glitch. "You're nothing, Soundwave! You can't beat me! I own you! I own you, Soundwave!" Ratbat devolved into a manic laugh fueled by sleep exhaustion. The cackle was lost to the noise of the thundering barrage of piano keys like a bird swept up in a storm.


	3. First encounters of the wave/wave kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratbat finally rids himself of his orchestral. Shockwave and Soundwave meet for the first time and both remain unimpressed.
> 
> (also sorry for the chapter title I can't be serious to save my life sometimes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't beta this but I'll probably edit it slowly within the next few days! Woohoo, hopefully we can move this thing along!

Polyhex was not nice enough to own a music hall. Even if it had owned one, this was one of the rare occasions where Ratbat preferred to move an asset far, far away from himself. 

Really, loaning Soundwave was the perfect solution. The music hall in Praxus was second only to the one in Iacon, and knowing explicitly that Ratbat had agreed to send his personal orchestral there would make him look even better in the eyes of the public, the senate, the prime. He could not only cash out on social capital, but literal shanix as well, as they’d have to pay a fee to keep Soundwave there.

Not that he wouldn’t have given them Soundwave for free at that point. But they didn’t have to know that.

He arrived with his personal entourage and strolled inside to meet with the director as his servants wheeled the case containing his hated orchestral elsewhere. 

The director, a slender mech with pale armor that vaguely resembled porcelain, greeted him graciously. Ratbat didn’t bother shaking his hand. 

“I’m sure Senator Proteus sends his thanks. If I’m not mistaken, he doesn’t own any of the Orchestral’s here personally, does he.” Ratbat smiled politely, an air of innocent curiosity in his words.

The director smiled back. “No, senator, he does not. We are all very grateful for your contribution.”

“I’m sure you are. Why don’t you show me the conditions my orchestral will be kept in?” Ratbat began walking, and the director hurried to keep pace, guiding him up the gleaming stairs and into the more private rooms of the music hall. 

They bypassed the grand doors that lead into the hall itself, where the wealthy would be seated and waited on, and instead went down a much more modest hallway to the back of the grand building. It was there, well past the stage, that they housed their less important orchestrals.

The director lead Ratbat into a large, dark room, behind heavy metal doors. The lights flicked on, revealing a row of glass display cases against a wall. Ratbat’s eyes flicked over the orchestrals, not recognizing any of them. 

“As you can see, each orchestral is given it’s own case. We’ll be moving yours here as well, where it will be monitored and maintained with the utmost care.” The director smiled, turning to one of the orchestral’s and beginning to go on another small spiel. 

Ratbat interrupted. “I had thought you housed a certain ex-senator here.” 

The director paused. “Ah, that’s correct. Shockwave is housed in the private lounge.” 

“Why is that?” Ratbat turned his shrewd gaze on the director, who did his best not to shrink. Ratbat fought the urge to smirk. 

“Well, Senator Ratbat… Shockwave’s orchestration is not public knowledge. The private lounge is reserved for prominent political figures such as yourself, where Shockwave exclusively plays. He's a bit prestigious due to his old career.” The smile was back, resilient even under a judgmental gaze.

Ratbat nodded. “I see. And you intend on housing my personal orchestral here with the rest of the unremarkable ones?” 

The director faltered. “Ah… No! No, not at all. Let me show you to the lounge.” The director hurried to get the door for Ratbat, who allowed himself a small smirk as he glanced back at the group of orchestrals staring dully back at them. 

The lounge was located above the main stage, hidden amongst the ornate decorations that framed the top of the theater. A two sided mirror allowed those present to look out on the audience that filled the music hall on performance nights, literally placing those in the lounge above them. 

The lounge itself was gorgeous. The richness was subtle, less of the alabaster glow that made up the rest of the hall and more a deep, smoky regality. 

Suspended above the rest of the hall, it was a relatively small area, polished tables gleaming in the low light, deep maroon hidden in dark, velvety looking fabrics that hushed any sounds in the room, made everything quiet and private. Gold accents glimmered on the rims of the bar top and the small stage that sat absorbing all the attention in the room merely because it was the only place in the lounge that was fully lit. 

Ratbat looked it over appreciatively, and caught the gleam of the dim lights on the glass of a display case by the bar. 

He approached to get a good look at Shockwave. Really, he was unrecognizable now, mostly due to the fact that his entire head had been removed. Ratbat resisted the urge to tap on the glass, but he did bend over to peer more closely. 

Despite how titillatingly abhorrent it was to see the changes in someone he used to work with, he couldn’t deny that Shockwave still looked good. That delicate plating had carvings to mimic the curving f-holes of a violin (a name Ratbat might have chuckled at if he was, like, a sparkling,) and he had been painted an almost pearly looking purple. 

Ratbat realized that Shockwave’s construction might make his own Orchestral look bad, but he wasn’t about to back down from the prestige of having his personal property preform in the private lounge of the Praxian Music Hall. 

Internal alliteration finished, he turned back to the director. “Will Shockwave be playing tonight?” 

The director smiled an apologetic smile, almost identical to the rest of the fake ones he had been putting out all evening. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. Though we would be happy to invite you to The Lounge when he’s slated to play next.” The addition of Ratbat’s orchestral to the private lounge threw some things off, but the director was nothing if not resourceful. Having a piano specific orchestral would be a great addition, and with a little bit of training and practice he assumed he could get some lovely duets from the two instruments. 

Ratbat pretended to consider the offer. “You may send me an invitation.” Of course, he had no intention of coming. He needed a long, long break from music. 

\---

 

Soundwave was wheeled in after Ratbat had left the lounge. Befuddled as to where they were supposed to put him in the small room, they placed him on the opposite side of the bar, closer to the stage and more hidden. 

Opening the display case, they merely checked to be sure no repairs or cleanings were required, before they hooked up the energon feed and left the two orchestral’s in the dark. 

After a moment, Soundwave’s red visor powered on. It was too dark in the room to make much out, and his optics had been off as he had feigned sleep mode, hoping it would encourage the movers to talk amongst themselves and let slip clues about where they had taken him. They hadn't spoken much regardless, and wasn’t entirely sure where he was. Potentially, it was a storage room in the basement of some building owned by a noble, but it really didn’t matter to him either way. 

He was only glad to be out of Ratbat’s direct authority. Ratbat, who he had played assistant to for an orn, listening to the senator's hatred that fed his superiority complex as it crawled through his mind. 

Soundwave had been patient. He had bided his time, pledged his loyalty to the gladiator poet who promised to raise them all up, and in the end Ratbat had found him and stripped the supporters from the cause just as the institute had stripped his plating from his protoform. He was only lucky they hadn’t known about his telepathy when they took him, otherwise his processor would likely be in a jar. 

…Though technically, all of him was currently in a jar. He struggled momentarily in the stand, that held him in a relaxed t-pose above the ground, two prongs under his arms and a thin clench just above his hips. Suspended in the dark, he struggled to kick, hitting the edge of the glass of his display. 

It hadn’t cracked, didn't even come close, but it did make a soft banging sound. He tried again and only managed to make a slightly louder noise, though his helm snapped to the side as he saw a light come on across the room to his left. 

Too soft to be a security light. He stared at it, trying to figure out what it was and whether or not it posed a risk to him. 

Shockwave had only come online once he heard the banging sound, and when he went to look he was met with a red band in the dark. Optics. It was perplexing. He knew his schedule, he knew he should be the only thing in the room that could move, especially when it was dark like this. Obviously a mech was here with him, though for what purpose he could not tell. 

After a few more moments of the mutually perplexed staring contest, Soundwave resumed his attempts to free himself from the case. 

Shockwave was piecing it together. He knew what a display case sounded like when hit, and that was the noise he was hearing, though any other cybertronian likely could have broken the case in a few blows. The scarlet band gleaming in the dark was only slightly lower than his own eye level, so the physical weakness couldn't be due to minibot stature, and either way his had been the only display case present when he had gone into sleep mode. There was a new orchestral in the lounge, it seemed, one that was intent on pursuing the illusion of freedom. It wasn’t entirely impossible to escape the case unaided, though there was nowhere to go from there.

At best, his new ‘roommate’ would escape into a dark, empty lounge. The doors were locked and the room wasn’t big, and in a quarter of a cycle the maintenance mech would be coming in to check them over and tune them, and if the new orchestral did manage to get out the maintenance mech would surely discover the pathetic ‘escapee.’ 

The staff was well within their rights to discipline any of them that forgot they were no longer entitled to a personality. Shockwave himself had not the capacity to care. He knew what they had done to him, though it no longer mattered, and he did not feel enough to even be content in his new role as an entertainment device. 

His companion apparently felt otherwise. 

Accustomed to the silence and solitude he usually was allowed for his recharge cycle, the constant thumps of a weak pede against sturdy glass and the occasional odd note of the piano was keeping him up. 

He almost felt smug when the morning finally came and their maintenance mech began fiddling with the lock from the outside. Almost. He wasn’t capable of emotions any longer, he reminded himself. 

Soundwave’s efforts had grown weaker and more sparse as the hours had passed, so he was well worn out when Tailgate finally got the door unlocked. The little white mech, hardly more than a janitor, cracked the door open a tad and waited until the lights were on before hurrying in. 

Shockwave watched him impassively. Tailgate’s visor brightened in a smile. “Good morning!” He was wheeling a small cart of cleaning supplies and tools, and didn’t hesitate to open Shockwave’s display. 

Shockwave continued to watch him emotionlessly as he yanked a barstool over and clambered on top of it to reach the ex-senator. “I hope you recharged well. I slept terribly.” He started cleaning his chassis. Well, polishing it at least. Really, the only thing orchestrals had to worry about was dust. 

“You know, I heard they put another one of you up here, and I really really thought it was going to be Cyclonus.” Tailgate mentioned as he worked. “You wouldn’t know him but he’s an orchestral downstairs. He does brass.” 

“You two are sort of similar, you know? You’re both tall, purple, and quiet.” He laughed a little. Shockwave didn’t respond, tuning him out. He hadn’t been given his normal stretch of silence for the cycle, thanks to a certain someone, and it was a big grating to be spoken to so much. No one else ever bothered to speak to him. He didn't know why Tailgate tried. 

Tailgate continued, oblivious to Shockwave's preferences. “I’m excited to, uh, meet the other orchestral. I was told he used to be a mech named Soundwave. I wonder if they put you guys together because your names were similar?” Shockwave didn’t see why that had any bearing on anything. 

He noticed that Soundwave had looked over at that point, the glare of his visor portraying no emotion. Finally, they could see each other. 

Soundwave had not expected that the singular yellow light in the dark had been an optic. He wouldn’t admit to being surprised, though the area he found himself in was much different than the basement or stockade he had partially been anticipating. Somehow, this was worse. 

It was luxurious to a disgusting degree. Tailgate had turned the lights all the way up, past the sultry glow they were normally kept at, and it illuminated just how needlessly decadent everything in The Lounge was. It was luxury. There was energon behind the bar that likely hadn’t been touched in cycles, used decoratively, while mechs out on the streets starved.

Quiet anger smoldered in Soundwave’s spark. He was less a slave than he was under Ratbat, and now more an item. Another decoration. Just like the mindless mech already stationed there, who had no thoughts he could sense, and therefore assumedly no mind left. 

He hadn’t realized Shockwave was an orchestral during the night. Emotions were the vessels of thought, yet the instrument being polished before him had none, and therefore Soundwave could not sense him the way he could others. Shockwave was little more than a shell, he thought. 

Soundwave wandered briefly if it would have been better if they had destroyed his mind in the same way. Was it better to be nothing, or to be intelligent and alive, and trapped within a weakened, muted toy of a body, robbed of all agency. 

He looked straight ahead, his anger and desperation settling under the constant pressure of defeat and humiliation that now plagued his life more than it had ever, even when he had been lost on the streets. He had been a quiet person before they had cut his vocal chords, but now the utter helplessness made him want to scream. 

Shockwave watched Soundwave turn away from him, sensing some resignation. Perhaps the instrument had finally grown tired from his escape attempts. He ignored Tailgate’s prattling, the minibot talking more about the old warrior Cyclonus whom he had yet to polish that morning, and instead focused on observing the orchestral he would be sharing a stage with.

Soundwave was a glossy blue. It was a handsome color, though he was admittedly a bit garish compared to Shockwave. His chest was even more ridiculous, piano strings visible behind a clear pane of glass, the pedals typical for a grand piano splayed out over his pelvic armor. Shockwave wondered vaguely if that was some innuendo that had been made in very poor taste. 

Shockwave turned back to Tailgate as he realized both the superficial polishing and constant soft dialogue had stopped. The mini had been watching the nonverbal interaction, and he seemed pleased. “You guys are going to get along swell. I can tell.” 

Tailgate was very wrong.


	4. Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave is no longer just unimpressed, he is actively unhappy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. Special thanks to Lacrimoso for getting me interested in writing this fic again. I have so much planned for it, but I'm not always a super great writer. Thank you guys for bearing with me!!

The Lounge was filled with a soft, drowsy murmur that mirrored the dimmed lighting of the interior. Just as flashes of gold were visible through the deep reds of the room, occasionally a crystal cube would clink against someone’s servo, breaking through the soft hum of refined voices sharing secret conversations. 

Soundwave heard them all. Despite all the things his orchestration had taken from him, the process had only improved his already acute hearing. The mechs gathered around well polished tables and in plush chairs were discussing the new ways they could control the lower classes for profit. 

He and Shockwave were playing a piece together, which was unsurprising. Shockwave was popular, not only for his beauty but his unrivalled technical superiority. If it had been Soundwave alone, very few would have come to listen. In many ways, Soundwave would have preferred that, but even an antisocial mech like him eventually craved interaction. He had to wonder if Shockwave did as well. Shockwave, who felt nothing and never spoke to him despite being capable of it.

The piano mech’s glare was interrupted when he caught a flash of yellow on the other end of the stage. Shockwave had been adjusting his strings, running the delicate chords of his bow through a nanite infused resin. They had shared this luxurious cage for two weeks at this point, but this was the most Soundwave had seen him move. 

The Lounge was horrible. The room he had been confined to in Ratbat’s mansion had been unpleasant and disgusting in it’s excess and gaudy décor, but The Lounge was far worse. At least in the mansion, he had been able to vent his anger in small ways. His audience was the individual responsible for enslaving him and he could at least feel some twisted, petty pleasure at finding new ways to be infuriatingly disobedient. 

Now he didn’t even have that, and being so useless was exhausting. The sadistic socialites who placed him here likely weren’t aware of how effective it was to take a mech used to constant productivity and deny him even the freedom of movement. Two weeks in a glass case, and he was finally being let out for his debut. He was ashamed of how eager he was to play for the people he hated, how much he needed to be reassured that he still existed outside of he box. He hated how desperately he wanted to be useful.

The lights between them brightened on the polished surface of the stage. Shockwave stepped from behind his curtain to claim it, and the room hushed. He was beautiful under the harsh light. He was stunning. His thin shell was pearlescent, lavender but with the qualities of abalone, the colors shifting at every tiny, precise movement he made. As with every other gorgeous thing in the room, it disgusted Soundwave to behold.

Shockwave shifted to begin, no polite applause welcoming him as he was just a machine on a stage. What was left of his helm cradled the violin as the first note struck the air. His song began, a new composition synthetized according to the audience’s observed tastes. It was refined but as hollow as the instrument Shockwave represented, though the wealthy mechs listening seemed to enjoy it. The murmuring began again as the song proceeded, the perfect volume to be ignored by those who preferred to continue their chats.

Soundwave took it all in, his spark feeling small in his chest with humiliation as he watched Shockwave. The eyes in the crowd watched him with admiration and approval, and chill crept up Soundwave as his envy was processed at the same time as his horror and disgust for feeling it. It felt like a betrayal of his very being, to want to please them, to want their acknowledgment and esteem even if it meant turning into an object. He wanted to purge, or to cry, but it was no longer possible for him, all he could do was watch blankly and listed to Shockwave’s soullessly pleasant melody. Shockwave was a perfect shell, what they wanted, what they would listen to and admire, and he wondered with increasing despair if his spark would die the same way, out on a stage, performing exactly how they wanted him to, obedient. Emotionless. Nothing.

He wouldn’t let them kill him like that, he decided, with rising panic and outrage. The isolation had subdued him, but he was finding the strength to resist again, clinging to his hatred like a shield to protect him from giving in just to feel less trapped and alone. He remained behind his curtain, even as Shockwave left subtle openings in his melody to allow him to enter seamlessly. By the third cue his song was beginning to sound noticeably repetitive and badly organized, and the audience was disapproving.

Shockwave glanced away from his instrument, something he had never done before on stage. He looked at Soundwave, helm tilted in a way that almost made him appear annoyed. The expression struck Soundwave and he stared back, trying to decide if the emotion was real on the violinists face. He stepped onto the stage and began playing.

Soundwave had joined in abruptly, interrupting the flow of the calm melody, and Shockwave actually stopped playing for a moment. Far more noticeable than an upwards glance, it shocked the mechs watching more than Soundwave’s disruption of the song, but any objection was lost as the piano captured their attention. 

He was playing faster than Shockwave had. Rather than meld with the established melody, he had joined in with something new, the polar opposite of the docile, refined music Shockwave played mechanically. The piano started off soft when it interrupted the song, the urgent tinkling of keys so quiet that those listening leaned forward to hear it. It was like a furious whisper, someone waking you abruptly in the night to tell you of some fast approaching danger with their last breath. 

So intently did the audience listen that they hardly realized the volume had been increasing. No longer confined to higher notes, the urgent song escalated, strong now, more nuanced. It was repeating the same melody as before, but forceful, Soundwave facing the audience as if demanding something from them, red visor a harsh glare under the light. 

Shockwave was trying to keep up, but the volume and speed kept raising as the range of tone expanded, and he could not anticipate the changes. His violin was beginning to sound shrill as he tried to find purchase in the growing chaos of the song that sounded more and more like a swelling storm. 

Finally the audience was broken from there reverie, some standing as Soundwave’s keys rolled like sheets of rain, demanding, powerful, raging, Shockwave taking a step back as the violin’s strings all but screamed in response, the only logical match to the illogical progression. It sounded horrible, but undeniably moving in a terrifying way. For the first time, the music had emotion, but it sounded like murder.

The lights began to brighten and Soundwave quieted back down to a whisper as one mech, not a guest but a guard, moved towards the stage. No longer the intimidating roar of keys being slammed, the too soft song regained the same odd little melody it began with before extinguishing itself all at once. The curtains were closed, confused applause following after as the two orchestrals were escorted off the stage. For the first time, Shockwave resisted. 

Not that it meant much. He was guided off carefully, but he kept looking back, one guard holding his bow arm as he kept attempting to play, digging his heels in even as they half carried him off the stage. It was illogical. It was illogical! They had a specific time slot and it had yet to expire, and yet the curtains were closed. He had composed something that should have been pleasant but it was interrupting with unstructured noise! He couldn’t have made a passable melody out of that, no, it was impossible. It wasn’t music as he understood it and yet they were applauding! It was illogical! 

He struggled weakly as he was fitted back into the glass case, still trying to connect bow to violin string. They ended up gently prying the instrument from his hand. 

By then the applause had stopped and the room was abuzz with conversation that had nothing to do with workers rights violations or profits. No one knew what to think of that, but the general consensus was that… They liked it. 

No one had understood it, but it hadn’t taken long before one of the wealthy mechs had claimed to. “Now that… It was true artistry. It’s not often you feel the real, raw emotions of music in an Orchestral composed piece.” Another mech had scoffed. “Orchestrals don’t feel emotion, raw or otherwise. I think it’s malfunctioned. Perhaps I’ll be generous and offer to buy it from Senator Ratbat.” There was a clamor then, and their opinions had been cemented. Whether or not they had enjoyed it, it had been unique, and status belonged to those who owned one of a kind toys or experiences. 

Soundwave had yet to fall into recharge as the guests gathered to take a look around his case. He glared out at them, the red visor betraying no definite emotion but still appearing to simmer with intensity regardless. Rather than shake or displease them, the chatted among themselves about how interesting it was, speculating on whether or not the living mech inside the glass case could feel anything or understand them. 

Shockwave, who was awake as well, looked over for once. Only a few patrons milled by his case, and they were looking across the room as well. Soundwave turned to meet his optic, and something stirred inside of him, making him twitch as the odd sensation twisted his tanks.

It was a stunning thing, to feel again after so long.


	5. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they find a way to communicate. Utterly alone, they find something they've been looking for in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, I pulled an all nighter to write these two chapters and I was too lazy to try and edit this one haha. If you spot anything that needs changing lemme know!

The next day, they had been taken out of their cases and set on the stage to practice, which was a completely baffling concept for Shockwave. He didn’t “practice.” They had remade him specifically to make music without additional input, and it was illogical to waste time trying to improve his already perfect system. He had to pause in his analysis of the stupidity of the situation to marvel at the tiny squirm of irritation within his internals. Fascinating. Had it been a tangible object, he would have wanted to dissect it. 

A stronger sensation hit his circuits as the director placed the electrified rod to the back of his neck. His melody had lapsed into something less pleasant when he had felt the irritation, and they were apparently counting on him to set a good example for his unruly stage mate. He meditated on the pain for a moment, not allowing himself to feel annoyed despite the fact that it was now something he was capable of. He eased back into his song. 

Soundwave was not faring any better. He had taken quite a few more shocks and displayed quite a bit more irritation, Shockwave noted. He identified and categorized the new tickle of emotion in his system: Smugness. The piano in question was beginning to play loudly again, but the noise was cut off as his frame went stiff, the electricity stalling him. 

Shockwave’s tune was a little more energetic. The director allowed it. Soundwave’s song was softer, but grimmer. Reluctantly, the director allowed that too. 

All throughout practice they weren’t permitted to look at each other. It was a policy most music halls held, as Orchestrals were to be treated like objects and not people. On stage especially, they were to give no indication of personhood, because it was an insult to those who had paid so much to have all their personhood erased. Shockwave was beginning to question the logic of such a restriction, because it was depriving him of the bodily cues he might use to anticipate the unpredictable imperfection in his stage mate’s songs. 

Really, it was… Unfair. He fared well by himself. He had operated with maximum efficiency, producing music with a 99.8976% acceptance rate. Then they had stuck this imperfect, unruly Orchestral on the stage and now he was expected to alter the perfection of his own routine to accommodate him. Despite it, he marveled at his ability to resent. It was a waste of energy to feel things, but it was fascinating all the same. It captured his attention more than his tired music did. 

They continued their practices for weeks. The Lounge remained empty aside from them and their trainers and Tailgate on occasion, coming in with his cart to polish them and chat, something Shockwave was beginning to pay more attention to.

The little mech was polishing his chassis and chatting absently again as he worked, prattling on about his favorite subject. “…And I don’t know, but I think he’s started warming up to me. I found out that he’s interested in old Cybertronian songs, which isn’t really surprising since he sings himself, for the music hall that is, so I started trying to sing some while I polish him and he actually spoke to me to give me tips, and then he sang a little for me and-“ 

Tailgate jumped as Shockwave shifted, looking down at him. “I do not wish to hear any more regarding your preoccupation with Cyclonus.” 

There was a pause, the minibot struck speechless for a moment. “You can TALK!?” 

Shockwave hadn’t answered after, and apparently the exchange had left Tailgate sheepish. He finished his duties in silence and then left quickly, seemingly embarrassed to realize Shockwave had always been fully aware of what Tailgate was saying during his mindless vent sessions.

Shockwave was honestly a little disappointed. He didn’t care about Cyclonus, but he had been hoping the minibot would share information about other things. With Tailgate gone, the silence settled back over the both of them again like an old dusty blanket. 

Shockwave couldn’t recharge, and by the band of red light across the room, he could tell Soundwave couldn’t either. Still, it was illogical to continue wasting energy when there was input to preoccupy his restless processor. He had just decided to initiate a forced shutdown when a small sound caught his attention.

Soundwave was playing something. Just a few high notes, tinkling without any discernable melody. He was set to ignore it when he realized that Soundwave was playing an old Cybertronian melody. It was hardly recognizable, it was so soft and high, and Shockwave paused again when he was hit with another realization. Soundwave was simulating what Tailgate had likely sounded like when he had attempted to sing an old Cybertronian song. 

“Hm. That is amusing.” Shockwave stated. The little melody stopped, Soundwave apparently satisfied with that assessment. Shockwave, still bored, decided to add to the joke by suddenly activating his internal instrumental capabilities. The low bellow of a cello blasted out of him, and he heard his counterpart jump from across the room. Shockwave stopped. “That was Cyclonus.” 

His explanation was met with silence. 

Shockwave was tempted to puzzle over it, fully aware Soundwave was likely incapable of speech but still curious to perceive his reaction, when the piano provided him a response. Soundwave began to play, just a short little song, but the tone was distinctly that of mild amusement. 

Shockwave listened for a moment, taking a second to really appreciate the emotional aspect of the song. He hadn’t thought about music that way since before he… Shaking that line of thought from his head, as it was a waste of energy to be emotional over things passed, he decided to join in on the music being played. His addition was cautious and thoughtful, but it expanded soon to keep the pace with Soundwave. While they both were playing to a slow tempo, Shockwave’s song was contemplative and unchanging while Soundwave’s, equally steady, slowly began to grow. 

As they held their first musical conversation, Shockwave began to have another revelation. The patterns in Soundwave’s music weren’t unpredictable, they were merely dictated by emotion. He hadn’t realized before. Calmer, less horribly angry sounding, he could hear now and understand what was happening. Though his emotions were limited, Soundwave’s song ran through him like water awakening a desert. Soundwave was helping him to feel. 

Shockwave hadn’t realized how much he missed it. His violin grew higher, matching his in-vents as Soundwave described suffering and smoldering anger. Being lost, being stolen, being stripped down, but still possessing a desperate will to live. That desire was bleeding into his own spark as he shuddered his optic, his violin sorrowful as something began breaking down inside of him. 

Shockwave had never allowed himself to mourn. Together, they mourned what had been taken from them. They found solace in each other as their melodies melded together, able to understand the hidden soul of the mech across the room, able to feel the same pain the other felt, to feel the evidence of their life beyond slave machines of fancy. Something relaxed in both of them as the song came to an end.

Soundwave built his storm again, but slowly this time, more focused, fully expressing the building anger and anxiety, how little he trusted the future. The anger was gone, replaced with fluttering high notes, the stuttering of a spark desperate to be alive as they drew towards the end, Shockwave’s motions over the strings fast and frantic, absorbing that fear, feeling the same desire, before drawing out in a yearning harmony between deep tones and high. 

The silence that followed this time was charged with something else, their song still ringing in their minds. They had lost everything. But they had found each other. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTrc3mpjdI0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Super Important** please listen to the song at the end of this chapter, it's what they're playing and what this entire fic was inspired by.


	6. Helped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate just wanted an excuse to talk to Cyclonus. He may have bitten off more than he can chew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited as always. Several people have offered to Beta for me and I really need to take them up on it haha... I hope this chapter is a little more interesting, I know it can be hard to read without dialogue. I hope this chapter doesn't seem too rushed but I am super impatient. We're sort of tipping closer to the 2nd half of the story- I hope I can convey all the feelings right!
> 
> Also side note, I have art for Soundwave and Shockwave. One of my friends told me they had been picturing Soundwave as a grand piano with his head sticking out the entire time.  
> ...Rest assured, none of the orchestrals are actually just straight up their instruments, haha  
> Will post art later! Thank you for sticking around and reading!

 Neither of them remembered falling asleep the next cycle. Their music had wound together into a soft hum and lulled them both to sleep, like the quiet conversation of two old friends. Shockwave felt very strange.   
The lights in the lounge were dim as always when he woke, but he felt for some reason he could see the details of the room more clearly. The stage lights had been turned on during the night and it felt strangely like sunlight. He watched the dust moats float through the beams, illuminated by the light, and he felt new and clean. Slowly his attention was pulled from the dust to Soundwave, still offline and hanging like a doll in his display case. Shockwave surprised himself by hoping he would awaken soon. Though he felt lighter in his chest, there was a longing underneath it. Something else he hadn’t felt in a long time.  
   


———

   
Tailgate would have never described himself as a liar, but mostly because he was ashamed by the truth of it. The trick to lying was to make you yourself believe the lie, and he was in the midst of convincing himself as he scurried back into the Orchestral chamber. He had to stay late because he hadn’t finished polishing all the Orchestrals. That was why. No other reason! None.  
   
He stopped in front of Cyclonus’s display, glancing down the aisle to be sure no one else was coming. Cyclonus had begun waking, the soft noise of Tailgate’s little pedes enough to rouse him, but Whirl had stirred in response to his nervous energy. Whirl greeted him from across the aisle with a honking noise, having perfected the art of making the trumpet part of his frame sound exactly like a techno goose. Tailgate cringed at the sound, turning his attention towards Whirl to calm him down, but the mechs next to him were already waking up a bit. Cyclonus, who was fully awake by then, was looking down at Tailgate with a disapproving frown and serious eyes.

 

Tailgate waved his hands quickly, as if that would dispel the sour expression. He opened his case, taking out his cleaning rags hastily. “Don’t worry- I’m just here to finish polishing you, because I didn’t have time to finish.” The stern look he got in response told him he hadn’t yet perfected his lie, and he cringed slightly. “Alright, well I felt bad I had to leave so soon. It’s not completely untrue that I didn’t have time, you see I wanted to do a better job on you but the new Orchestral upstairs, Soundwave, he’s so hard to polish. He’s got all this extra kibble, but in really awkward areas, and it’s just a huge pain for both of us.” Tailgate huffed as he thought of the poorly placed piano pedals, but his annoyance faded slightly at the look of amused interest in Cyclonus’s optics. Tailgate’s countenance brightened as he began polishing the warrior, running his soft cleaning cloth over his arm. Those that had woken up listened in drowsily, an orchestral by the name of Swindle yawning from their other side.

 

“…And besides the subpar polishing job, you didn’t have time to teach me any new songs.” Tailgate finished, his own optics smiling as Cyclonus glanced away. The warrior’s lips parted, but before he could speak his head snapped to the side. The orchestrals that had been listening in casually all quickly offlined their optics and hung limply in their stands, all but Whirl and Cyclonus. Tailgate felt panic start to mount in his spark, frozen for a moment in front of Cyclonus as he held his breath. Once he heard the approaching footsteps he began moving, but in no way that was helpful. He was close to running around in circles, looking for a place to hide while trying to hold in the terrified squeaks that threatened to leave his vox. Cyclonus, alarmed, waved him over without thinking and Tailgate, also not thinking, didn’t hesitate to jump into his open arms. Quickly, Cyclonus stowed him behind himself, letting the mini hold onto his wings as he shut his own display case and went limp. 

It was just in time too. The door to the Orchestral chamber slid aside, the director walking in with another mech Tailgate didn’t recognize. A small pinch from Cyclonus was enough to get him to stop peeking over the warrior’s wings, the mini quickly going back to hiding. 

“…An embarrassing disaster. Shockwave is an immensely skilled unit, but with the repetitive song writing…” The director shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That was why we brought in Soundwave, you see! Senator Ratbat swore to his quality, but Primus. Not- Not that I can’t see the appeal! But Primus! They can’t be playing together! It was a disaster!” His companion listened patiently as the director vented, the two of them half heartedly checking over the ‘offline’ orchestrals.  
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s not worth being the talk of the town if the- if the town…” The director stopped when he realized his companion had stopped following him. 

He turned to see what he was doing and immediately spotted the discarded cleaning rag, laying on the ground in front of Cyclonus’s case. The director marched back over quickly, plucking the rag off the ground and subspacing it, vexed that the orchestral chamber wasn’t spotless.  
“I’m sorry. One of the janitors must have left it.” Actually, there was really only one janitor… Brow ridge furrowing, the director began turning towards the warrior’s case, blinking as he tried to figure out what was off. The room was still dim since it was early, and he couldn’t really make out the small white bits of kibble peeking over Cyclonus’s wings. Had those always been there? The director began reaching for the display case, beginning to open it, when there was a loud and horrible noise. 

Honking filled the chamber, cymbal clashing following it as Whirl erupted into a cacophony of noise. The director jumped, turning just in time to miss Tailgate falling off of Cyclonus’s back and quickly climbing back up. Whirl’s noise making had changed from horrible brassy blarps to an old hunting song, trumpeting with a jovial aggression as the director cursed, fumbling with something in his subspace.

The trumpeting turned from a happy noise to more of a cut off shriek as the director aimed a small button at Whirl. His frame tensed and twitched violently in his case, sparks shivering off of his thin armor as the director held the button down, teeth clenched. He only stopped when he felt a hand on his arm, releasing the button and turning away from the now limp form to apologize to his guest.  
“I’m so very sorry. This particular orchestral has always been unruly, and so we rarely take him out. He’s useless, really, we ought to sell him.” The director paused as a notice popped up on his hud. Tense, he looked back at his guest. 

“Shall we proceed to the bar?” 

“Ah, too early for me mech, but you go on ahead. I’ll catch up.” 

The director nodded, too distracted to argue as his guest waved him off. Once he was gone, Jazz turned to Cyclonus’s case. “I see you in there. Come on out. We’ve got a lot to discuss.” 

———

 

There hadn’t been enough time for Jazz to explain anything, what with the time limit and Tailgate’s panicked explanations.  
Once they had both checked Whirl over, the minibot had calmed down and Cyclonus had stopped trying to fight his way out of his case. Jazz hadn’t been able to stay long, but he had given Tailgate his card and instructed him to meet him at a bar later.

Tailgate fiddled with the glossy metal, waiting outside the establishment. Jazz had told him to meet him there much later in the cycle. Tailgate had gotten there a few hours early. Jazz had said to come alone. Tailgate had brought Swerve with him. The bot in question was currently chattering on a bit excitedly, fidgeting with his servos as Tailgate stood totally still and silent in comparison. 

“…If anyone tries to grab you I’m calling the cops. I hear they have a super cop in this area- Whatever’s going on, that guy’ll put a stop to it before you get offlined, probably.” 

Tailgate looked over at his friend. “That’s not reassuring! Just- Shh! I said I’d come alone, we’re supposed to be pretending we don’t know each other.”

“You’re doin’ a poor job of it, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.” 

Both the minis jumped, turning around to see Jazz leaning against the door with a crooked smile. He figured Tailgate would bring someone, but they couldn’t risk anything getting out just yet, and this other bot looked… Chatty. He could take care of this.

“Funny you got here early. We’re all already gathered up inside, so come on in.” He waved them both inside the bar and they followed, a bit dumbstruck. Jazz didn’t look behind himself as he strolled casually towards a table tucked away in the back. 

“Swerve, was it? Mind bein’ a pal and pickin’ us up a few drinks from the bar?” Jazz glanced in that direction, catching the eye of one of the mechs on a barstool. Skids nodded. Once Swerve got there he’d trap him in a conversation. Or maybe Swerve would trap him in a conversation. Either way. 

 

There were less people at the table than Tailgate expected, but they all still towered over him. A medic with a cross expression sat with his hands knitted together, untouched drink next to him. Beside him, face equally grim, was a genuine Praxian mech, door wings hiked up in a way Tailgate recognized as nervous and tense. As Jazz approached, a bright orange and red mech turned around and grinned at them, a surprising contrast from the serious faces. He gave Tailgate a friendly wink as the mini slid into the seat Jazz didn’t take, placing him directly across from the big blue mech with the stern eyes and battle mask. Orion nodded at the newcomer. 

“Tailgate, was it? I am Orion Pax.” 

Tailgate nodded quickly, recognizing him now and glancing over his shoulder at where Swerve was prattling away. His attention was stolen back as Jazz began speaking. 

“You know me. This here is Ratchet who runs the clinic in the dead end- Biggest spark you’ll ever meet,” Ratchet’s nasal receptor wrinkled a bit at that, but Jazz merely continued with a grin,  
“Next to him is Prowl, biggest processor you’ll ever meet,” Prowl inclined his head. If the compliment pleased him, he didn’t show it.  
“Then we got Pax over here, and last but not least, Blaster, biggest voice you’ll ever meet.” Blaster chuckled, ribbing Jazz good naturedly. Pax began speaking then and the two mechs sobered up some. 

“We’ve asked you here, Tailgate, because you possess valuable insight.” 

Tailgate almost balked. “Me?? Insight? On what?” 

Blaster shifted to look at him, countenance much more serious. “Orchestrals. Jazz says you speak with ‘em. This true?” 

Tailgate nodded, fear starting to trickle into his spark. He cleared his vocalizer, nervous. “Yes, but-! But! They haven’t done anything wrong! I didn’t either! There’s nothing against the rules about me talking with them, they just can’t talk to each other-!” 

Everyone at the table shifted at once, Jazz putting his hands up, Blaster reaching out like he might pat his shoulder. Prowl leaned back while Pax leaned forward, Ratchet taking in Tailgate’s reaction with a sharp eye.

“Take a deep in-vent. You’re not in trouble. Do your optics always fritz like that when you get flustered?” Ratchet squinted, chin in his hand.

“I- What?” Tailgate asked, looking around. “I don’t understand! Can someone explain to me why I’m here?? You said something about insight?” 

“Yes.” Prowl interrupted, catching everyone’s attention. “Orchestration is a cruel and outdated method of torture and subjugation. It used to be a rare process, more rare even than empurata, but music halls have become popular and political dissenters easy to arrest.  
Essentially, we’re hoping to leverage the public’s desire for music to help us outlaw this process and free those who have been orchestrated. We can then use the freed population to assist us in outlawing empurata and lobbying for a more democratic government.” Prowl laid it out simply, steepling his fingers. 

Tailgate nodded absently, trying to absorb all that information before pausing. “Wait- What does this have to do with me?? I’m only a janitor…”  
A more democratic government sounded great (he thought?) but he didn’t know how he could even hope to begin contributing to the plans of stronger and wiser mechs. 

Pax broke him out of his thoughts with a smile that crinkled his optics at the edges. “A janitor who speaks with orchestrals. Most believe them to be emotionless or content with their positions. You, my friend, are in a unique position to interview them. You, Tailgate, can spread their story. You can help them regain their citizenship.” 

Tailgate dared to imagine for a moment how long it had been since Cyclonus had flown last. He didn’t talk much about it, but Tailgate knew he missed it. He knew he loathed the costume they had welded to his body. Cyclonus could not stand how weak they had made him, but his anger had long since burnt out long after his hope had died. He tried to hide the grief in his visor as he nodded quickly, looking down. “Whatever you need me to do. I’ll do it.” 

Even Prowl smiled slightly at that. Orion nodded, reaching a hand out to shake Tailgate’s when a voice rung out across the room. “Holy SPARKS THAT’S ORION PAX.” Swerve was gaping from the bar, Skids casting an apologetic look at Jazz.


End file.
